


Leaving a Morsel or Two

by peonydee



Series: fried donuts and steamed buns [8]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlet, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 11:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13317264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peonydee/pseuds/peonydee
Summary: Tom has certain feelings about the assistants' behavior in his kitchen. Sabine, of course, is supportive, though not entirely in agreement.





	Leaving a Morsel or Two

_ a bite beckons the sweetened bright filling to ooze out from from the freshly baked bread. he gives her a satisfied smirk; a cat that finally got the cream. it only irritates his wife, as she threatens him to mess up that face with her squeeze bottle filled with bavarois. - tumblr anon fic drop (actually miko) _

* * *

_ _

Her husband Tom has never been one to clutch too tightly to his only daughter, muses Sabine.

Marinette has always been close to both her parents, even getting into mischievous scrapes with her father, ones she might have otherwise gotten into with siblings. As Marinette grew up, established her own interests and goals, Sabine wondered when her father might finally strike some knot of possessiveness in him. But even through Marinette dating, moving out, and eventually marrying the love of her life, Tom has remained unfazed.

It has been two years since Adrien proposed and about six months since he married Mari, and yet Tom still shows no signs of the empty nest Sabine herself is nursing in her heart. Perhaps, it has to do with the avid enthusiasm their new son-in-law exhibits in becoming part of their family. It helps, of course, that the boy has such a fine taste in food, uninhibited and downright hedonistic when appreciating and enjoying their cooking and baking, having the connoisseur’s palate from his travels and his upbringing but preferring the rich and comforting flavors best. Their small family has always congregated around making and partaking in food, and the common ground only served as a means for Tom and Sabine’s ensnarement, a perfect view of the heart he wears on his sleeve, a heart paired with their Marinette’s.

It isn’t like the newlyweds have made themselves scarce either. Not many days pass without either one or both dropping by the bakery to pick up accompaniments to their meals, perhaps, an apron, as well, to tackle random chore for a few hours. They have dinner at the Dupain-Cheng’s almost every weekend. And now, even though the two live less than a 20 minute walk away, they are currently staying over, having decided to spend their week-long break from work visiting Mari’s lonesome parents.

“Why couldn’t they just visit Gabriel Agreste up in his lonesome mansion,” mutters her husband. “I’m sure he has a kitchen.”

Sabine nudges him warningly.

“What? Mood-lighting, too, I bet. Broader countertops. A ginormous pantry. Hidden corners where they don’t have to scandalize everyone.”

“I thought you said you wanted them to be comfortable approaching us for help?”

“Honey, I think you hit the nail in the head. They are too comfortable here. In the Agreste mansion, there would be household staff. They’ll be less shameless.”

“They do bicker like they’ve had a dozen year’s practice.”

“It’s not the bickering that’s the problem,” grumbles Tom. “I’m happy they want to help and all, but they’re messing up my flow.”

“Sounds like a recipe for disaster, indeed.”

“My patissier’s pizzaz, Sabine. My baker’s beat. I can’t do my work with too many hands in the starter flour jar.”

“Hmm...” She pats his arm soothingly. “We can always banish them up to their room.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll ask them to open shop.”

“And have an entire arrondissement chaperone? Brilliant. The tourists can take their home-for-the-holidays selfie for them, as they share a tender kiss over the selection of buche de noel.”

Tom grunts and turns to leave, unsatisfied by his wife’s platitude. All the while, he mutters about the lingering mist of the honeymoon phase, its effect on modesty, restraint, and scrupulous attention to time and place, on persons he ordinarily trust to speak the voice of reason. He takes with him trays of various croissants to arrange at the shop displays. 

“I expected this from Mari,” Tom adds before letting the kitchen door close completely behind him. “But not from Adrien. They can both be very emotional, but Adrien tends to show more restraint and modesty.”

“I disagree. Adrien’s been a model so long, despite his myriad of other interests and talents, precisely because he enjoys having an audience. Besides, you think it’s adorable that they’re so affectionate with each other.”

“Not in my kitchen!”

“They’ve flirted in your kitchen before. Late adolescence was definitely much cheesier.”

She hears something about proximity and prolonged exposure through the door, the usual clatter of utensils and bowls, the ubiquitous whir of the mixer, swallowing the rest of her husband’s petulance. 

Sabine turns her attention to the two on donut duty. They are properly attired in starched white aprons, with fine mesh over their hair and thin plastic gloves on their hands. Before them are several cooling racks filled with the small cakes, freshly fried. Half of them are bulging with filling. The other half of the filling are still in the apparent cornerstone of the newlywed’s disagreement: a full piping bag and the squeeze bottle they had first attempted to use, now abandoned on its side, partially flattened.

For a moment, Sabine reconsiders her original plan of banishing the two to Marinette’s old room. 

See, there are only so many heavy lifting tasks that she can offer them to stave off their excess energy and competitiveness. Marinette has the advantage of growing up in the bakery, only awkwardly sliding back into tasks that used to be hers. Adrien is a quick study, able to fill in for one of the apprentices after a demonstration and a dry-run. They work well together, filling the bakery with giggles and debates, agile bodies that dance around and about each other as they toss ingredients back and forth, sneak a peck on a cheek or a hand, bounce around design ideas or musings on the application of thermodynamics. 

While they get their work done, they can be a bit disruptive, particularly to Tom who orchestrates the sequence and timing of all the moving pieces of the work. They are quieter on their own—too quiet, perhaps, both having startled apprentices for popping out of unexpected places. And despite his threats, Tom adamantly refuses to exploit Adrien’s instant recognizability by installing him at the shopfront. 

Giving them a product to oversee on their own from start to finish seem to work on grounding them. They still work in tandem and switch off policing quality control, but with a single purpose they are less apt to flit around. The donuts they’ve made the past couple of days are well-received and supports Adrien’s claim of donuts being an unmet market niche in the Metro. 

They started two days ago  with the classics: deep-fried or baked dough glazed or powdered with sugar. Yesterday, they expanded to ones frosted or filled with ganache. Today has been disastrous. 

“I told you we should have used pastry cream instead,” Mari says. 

“And disrespect the hallowed tradition of bavarois?” Adrien says. “What a thing to say for the thirteenth time, my lady!”

“Coz you’re running out of luck here, pitter-patter cat.” Mari blows at a few strands of hair escaping her hair net. “Bavarois is obviously not traditional. It doesn’t work. The consistency makes it hell to pipe—and stop! If you go into another spiel about fluid mechanics, I am going to mechanically pound you into kitty litter.”

“Now, now, my polka dot beignet!” The young man asserts his greater stature over his indignant wife, trapping her against the work table between his longer arms and legs. “You should save all that aggression for the bread kneading we’ll be doing after we finish our Bavarian creme donuts.”

Marinette meets her husband’s pacifying look stare for stare, irritation immuning her from the stellar looks that used to make her knees quake. Adrien quirks a sheepish grin at her, even as he lunges for the pastry bag. She squeaks in indignation as their tug of war pinches the bag, causing gelatinous cream to stream out of the piping tube and onto her face. 

The blond chuckles an apology, even as he stoops down in attempt to lick off the bavarois from her cheek. Mari feints to the left even as her other hand snatches a filled doughnut, a convenient stopper for her playmate’s sassy mouth. Adrien bites on his makeshift gag, his perfect teeth beckoning the sweet filling from the dough in a sensual ooze. He drops the hardworn pastry bag away from her reach and makes quick work of the donut. A satisfied smirk unfurls on his face, that of a cat who finally got the cream. 

His darling wife huffs in mock ire. Her blue eyes are narrowed and locked on his green ones, as she gropes the countertop behind her. Finally grasping a potential weapon, she brandishes the squeeze bottle at him.

“I’m gonna mess you up, handsome boy,” she threatens him. “I’m gonna show you how impossible it is to decorate like this with bavarois, with your face as canvas.”

Adrien’s bark of laughter makes a noticeable dip in register. Mari’s face flushes despite her unyielding stance, his voice evidently affecting her internal thermostat, enough that her fingers barely resist when he pries the squeeze bottle from her, as well. 

“Naughty, naughty, Mari.” 

“Oh, I’m the naughty one? Whose fault is it we’re now behind production time?”

“A certain bugnette, I believe, whose baking gifts doth rob hapless men of eloquence.”

“I’m going to chop you up in tiny pieces and stuff you in the donuts, kitty ala king. Can we get back to work, please?”

“As my lady commands.”

The former model tilts his head down to kiss away the smeared mixture on her cheek. This time, Mari does not twist away, instead launching an attack of her own. 

Sabine had the awkward experience of seeing at the side of an eye her daughter grope her husband, an aggressive two handed pinch to the fullest part of his bum through his tight, designer jeans. Thankfully, she has little time to process the sight, a strangled sound grabbing her attention. 

She turns to the source just in time to see a spurt of bavarois arc across the expanse of the kitchen, only to plop gracelessly on the horrendously appalled face of one besieged and beaten Tom Dupain. 

Mari squeaks in shock, rushing to her father with a dishcloth and squeaking once more when he makes no move to bend down to her reach. To the rescue comes Adrien, sprinting to his father-in-law posthaste, a corner of his apron in hand. He wipes the offending doughnut filling off Tom’s venerable nose with all due respect and probably not enough finesse, leaving said nose reddened and dusted with confectioners sugar. 

“Sorry, Papa,” Adrien offers, an apologetic grin sparkling in place.

Tom only gurgles in response. 

Sabine, of course,  is swift to rescue her husband, ushering him back out of the kitchen, away from the scandalous lovebirds in the midst of desecrating his craft’s temple. 

“It’s ok, my dear heart,” she tuts soothingly. “Let’s give the children a few minutes to finish their donuts. And then they’ll be on dishwashing duty, in the scullery, where you can be safe from their combined cute.”

“It’s not the combined cute that’s the problem,” he mutters. 

“We’ll be polite and not mention the blatant ass grab, won’t we?”

“Look, they can grab whatever the heck they want to grab, as long as I don’t have to see it.”

“I think I’ll just banish up to their room, so they can take care of their residual friskiness in time for them to help you knead tomorrow’s baguettes and, you know, not each other’s assets.”

“I don’t need them to knead---oh, I don’t care, anymore. Why don’t you ask them to help you prepare dinner?”

“Gladly. I’m sure they’ll expertly handle the meat, give a good pounding or two. Beats an afternoon of putting buns in an oven.”

“That’ll do, Sabine. That will do.”

“Oh don’t be so stodgy, Tom. Let them enjoy themselves.”

“Again. Not the problem, dear. Not. The. Problem.”

"They're probably like this at work, aren't they?"

"I seriously doubt they'd risk a reprimand from Gabriel Agreste. Which brings us to my original statement: they're way too comfortable here, honey."

"All right, Tom. I'll talk to them about time and place over dinner."

Thus mollified, Tom Dupain retreats to the relative safety of the shop front.


End file.
